LoveHate Relationships
by AKADropsofJupiter
Summary: He sits next to me in class. In almost every class, really. He is my best friend. But I hate him.


A note: Inspired by a talk with Katarin_Moonstar about the slashy qualities in the RFR fandom. If you haven't read her stuff yet- stop reading this, go read that, then come back and read this. I am not generally a slasher- I'm just playing with the characters a bit. I deliberately left out any formal names. Since this is my first slash attempt, I would love some feedback.

~**~**~**~**~

He sits across from me in class. In almost every class, really. He is my best friend.

But I hate him.

He makes everything so difficult. Before we met things were easier. I didn't spend my days staring across classrooms at him. I was able to focus on the assignments of my teachers, no matter how inane they might have been. I was able to think about other people... about girls, particularly. 

But now he fills my head. 

I was the new guy once. Labeled an outcast from day one, I had planned on my existence in Roscoe to be a lonely one. But then he introduced himself, and I finally had a friend. For once in my life, I had a very good friend.

At first it wasn't a big deal. We were friends for a long time before my new feelings sprang up. We hung out every day after school, between classes in the hallway, everywhere really. We ate lunch together. It was at lunch that I finally realized that my friendly feelings were starting to get a little too friendly. He was eating a hamburger- a big, sloppy hamburger dripping with ketchup and mustard. As he took a huge bite, a little of the red and yellow swirl dripped onto the corner of his lips. I watched, completely fascinated, as he slowly lapped up the mess with the tip of his tongue. A tongue that suddenly I wanted to taste.

He noticed me staring and I snapped out of it. This was my best friend. My best friend who was NOT a girl. I put the image of that bright pink tongue out of my head as best as I could and excused myself to the restroom for the rest of the lunch period.

But the idea of it never really left. The idea was in my head, and I was hooked. Addicted. I satisfied my urges in the only way I could. I spent time with him, stared at him inadvertently, touched him whenever possible in the thousands of ways that looked innocent but weren't. A hand on the shoulder for emphasis. A pat on the back for comfort. High fives where I held on just a second too long. 

He's never noticed. Well, I suppose that's a lie. Once in a while he'll catch me looking. I always turn away (damn me for being a coward and not holding his gaze!), but I feel him looking back contemplatively, one eyebrow raised beneath that mop of dark, curly hair. Other than that, my feelings have remained a secret.

Normally I would speak up. I hate being afraid of things like this. Most of all, I hate lying to my best friend when I pretend to have crushes on girls so he won't think anything is out of the ordinary. I have found that, other than loving someone and being forced to keep it to yourself, the only harder thing is pretending to love someone that you don't. But I can't ever tell him. This is high school, and nothing is harder to keep in high school than a secret. It's not that I'm afraid he'll tell- my best friend would never betray me like that- but somehow, once I say something, somebody else will know. It's happened before.

And either way, change is not a good thing. He doesn't feel the same way, I am almost positive of that. Confessing such a huge secret could only lead to heartbreak for me and confusion for him. He'd drift away, afraid of encouraging something that he didn't want, and I would be left alone.

Again.

I couldn't stand to be left alone.

So for now, I stare at him across the aisle. He is sitting quietly, pretending to focus on the teacher's words. His eyes, however, are glazed, and I know he's thinking about one out of a million things that he puzzles over. My eyes travel downward, taking in the slope of his arms beneath the long sleeves of his sweatshirt; the strong hands idly playing with a number two pencil. God, how I wish I could kiss those amazing hands. Wish those arms would one day wrap around me, wish that those lips would press against mine. Most of all I wish for that tongue, that perfect pink tongue, to be tangled with mine as I press him against a bed with his whole body writhing beneath me.

He sits across from me in class. In almost every class, really. 

He is my best friend.

But I hate him.


End file.
